


Of All The Wildflowers

by Bloodiedpixie



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1970s Setting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Normal, Alternate Universe- 70s au, Baz is an Abba fan, Fiona owns Natasha's Library, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Penelope is just kinda her own thing, Period-Typical Homophobia, Punk Niall, Rocker Dev, Simon sort of lives in his van, it's the summer of 1977, librarian baz, more of a flower child, sort of hippie Simon, what else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodiedpixie/pseuds/Bloodiedpixie
Summary: The year is 1977 (summer to be exact), rebellion against the establishment, and groovy patterns are on the rise. Simon Snow is a 20-year-old outcast trying to stumble his way through life. With labor strikes causing job loss and the inability to stay in one place, Simon is used to traveling, and can never find a real reason to stay in one place for more than a few months.Baz Grimm-Pitch is a 20-year-old librarian, who (accompanied by his two friends Dev and Niall) is just trying to find some direction in life. When Simon stumbles into the Grimm-Pitch library and sees a very attractive man (Baz) reading a book on the register counter, they both just might find what they're looking for.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! so this is an idea I've had rattling in my skull for a year and a half and I decided...ya know what snowbaz would do awesome in this story! So here you are!!
> 
> Big big thanks to [Aristocratic_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocratic_Otter/pseuds/Aristocratic_Otter) and [Ampithoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampithoe/pseuds/Ampithoe) for beta reading and helping me with words! 
> 
> Also I have a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5edgzIeLCmzylazIzE36ny?si=YKhJFDwRSrmCq8DvHUElaw) made for this fic that I will add to as the story goes up if you would like to listen along!
> 
> Without further ado, I present Of All The Wildflowers

Simon

I can’t see anything; it’s sunset and the bright orange light is shining through my windshield and pretty much blinding me as I park my van.

I park in a garage about 5 minutes out of the city so I can walk to wherever I need without paying 30p for parking. What the hell is that about? Not everyone in the city can pay 30p for fucking parking.

I turn off the van and the sounds of "Let It Be" stop abruptly. I grab my bag out of the passenger seat, throw it over my shoulder, and get out.

I start walking down the sidewalks on the outskirts of the city. I’ve been here a couple of times, London is just, a lot.

It doesn’t really matter now, since Penny has moved here.

I technically live with her, but I travel a lot more than she does.

I’m about two hours early for meeting up with her so I decide to walk further into the city. The area I’ve stumbled into is a break in the usual summer tourist chaos.

It’s like a town square except smaller. The roads are old stone ones and there is a fountain in the center. Cars pass by every once and a while but really nothing is going on.

There are some families holding maps trying to find out where the tourist spots are, and there’s a group of punk kids setting off firecrackers with a growing crowd around them. Then there’s me.

There are a couple of stores and restaurants encircling the area. I see one place called “Grimm-Pitch Library” Penny’s been bugging me saying I need to read more so maybe if I pick out something there she’ll stop.

I walk into the library and I’m immediately hit with the scent of old books. There’s the faint sound of _Me and Bobby McGee_ playing over the radio sitting on the counter where…..Holy Shit.

Baz

It’s Friday and the patrons have been few and far between. Fiona has left for the day leaving me to my own devices the remaining hour that the library is open.

At the moment, I am lying on top of the counter in the center of the library. My left leg is propped up while my right leg dangles off the edge, swinging mindlessly back and forth as I read.

The late hours of the day are the best times to read. The light from the back window glazes the whole shop in gold. It makes any book I hold look almost magical under the golden light. (It also illuminates all the dust in the air.)

I’ve found holding the book above my head gives enough room for me to turn my head if someone is to come in. Niall says I look dramatic whenever I read like this, but I couldn’t care less.

I hear the door open, and hear soft footsteps coming into the building. I check my peripheral vision to see who’s walked in. It’s a man with broad shoulders who’s about my height in the doorway and he’s staring.

I turn my head the slightest bit in his direction to try and get a better look. I don’t want him to know I’m looking

He quickly grips the felt strap of his bag and strides off to a different part of the library.

Once he has his back towards me, I cave in to my curiosity and sit up to stare at him.

Good lord.

He’s wearing blue bellbottoms so faded they’re almost white. His shirt is a fitted pale-yellow tee with a sun on it. He has a cross-body felt bag when I saw him earlier, he was clutching it for dear life.

Everything he’s wearing (whether it is on purpose I don’t know) complements him completely.

He’s mostly staring at the back wall of books, the fantasy section—interesting.

I slide off the counter and start to walk over to him. He seems distracted but he isn’t looking at the books, he’s just staring at his feet.

I lean against the bookcase he’s stood in front of and cross my arms.

“May I help you, sir?” I ask startling him out of his trance.

He stares at me for a moment before miserably trying to make a sentence,

“Um, no — I mean! Yes, that’s your job, but like — I don’t need….Yes.”

I manage to keep my smile away from my lips, I’m trying to keep a sophisticated appearance, while simultaneously admiring the beautiful man before me.

Now that I’m closer and looking directly at him I see all his freckles and moles, his blue eyes, and the bronze curls that fall in front of his face. There are a few flowers laced through his hair as well.

He’s gorgeous.

“Well, what can I help you with?” I ask, “Or are you just content with staring at the books because I have to say it’s better if you open one.”

He blushes a little then speaks up,

“Um, well, I don’t know, I was kind of just trying to find a book to read while I’m on the road,” He smiles a bit at me then looks really awkward, “Not that I would read and drive, it’s just like I live in my van- well I don’t _live_ in my van I have a flat, I just like use my van a lot cause I have to travel to find jobs — not like that I usually have a job for a while —” he babbles.

I raise one of my eyebrows and wait for him to stop digging himself a hole and for him to stop looking adorable while doing it.

“I um,” He stops after he notices my face, “What’s a good book to read if you don’t read all the time?” he asks letting out a sigh.

I turn on my feet, facing the bookcase and looking it over. I pull out _The Once and Future King._

He takes it from my hands, cautiously looking the cover over before asking me. “So, what’s it about?”

I turn the book over in his hands where he can see the blurb. He still looks confused.

I sigh, “It’s four stories in one. All are fantasy and very well written. You’ll enjoy it, especially if you want a novel that will last a while.” I say leaning back against the bookcase again.

He just stares at me, his mouth still opened just a bit, almost like he is incapable of closing it. Mouth breather.

Simon

My god, this guy has left me speechless. Literally, all he’s done is irritably handed me a book and explained it. Yet I can’t look away, I just can’t.

He has tanned skin, that contrasts with his grey eyes. His black hair falls neatly around his shoulders but there are a few strands that fall in front of his face when he turns his head. All his sharp features are highlighted by the golden sun shining throughout the building.

Even his smell has caught me off guard. I can’t quite place it, but he smells like some sort of wood, and…citrus? I don’t know, either way, it’s a stark difference from the dust and old books.

Right, I think I’m making him uncomfortable by just staring at him.

“Um,” I need to stop saying ‘um’ but even though I’m in a building full of words, I’ve literally forgotten each and every word in the English language. I shake my head a little and then look at the book.

“Can I borrow this?” I say gesturing with the book. He looks a little curious and pushes off the bookcase, striding back over to the counter in the center of the library.

I quickly stumble over my feet trying to catch up to him. He walks behind the counter. Which is so, expensive. It’s got a wooden base and smooth stone on top. This _whole place_ looks expensive, including the one attractive employee that works here.

He dresses posh, he’s wearing this really attractive white button-down with blue flowers embroidered on the collar, and it’s tucked into a fitted pair of dark blue jeans, they cling to his thighs and ass…of course, I’ve looked at his ass, it’s right there!

He takes the book from my hands and starts quickly flipping the pages in another book, one filled with numbers. His movements are a very small thing, but he looks between the book and the numbers so fast, it’s mesmerizing. It’s a shame he only does it for about 10 seconds.

“Can I have your name and number?” He asks clicking a pen and holding it over a notepad covered in names and times.

“Simon Snow,” I say quickly, “and I don’t have a number.”

Without looking up from the notepad he asks, “Address?”

“Um, right,” I quickly reach into my bag pull out the paper that has mine and Penny’s new address on it before shoving it into my pocket, “341, Mummers Flats,”

“Okay, you have to bring this back in one week,” He says stamping then handing me the book. I take it from his hands. 

Then, the door behind me bursts open and two people who look about my age rush in, one yelling,

“BAZ, STATION 218 NOW!!”

Baz, who I assume is the beautiful clerk in front of me, looks a mix between embarrassed and pissed off.

The two newcomers both really want the channel on the small radio next to me to change, so much so, one jumps to sit on the counter trying to reach for it.

The one that jumps on the counter has deep red hair and freckles dusted across their pale face. He’s wearing a black shirt with the sleeves ripped off and decorated by various rips and tears, and some black jeans with bleach spots on them. His studded boots make a loud noise when they hit the wood base of the counter.

The other, the one who yelled at Baz, has paler skin and messed up black hair that he keeps trying to move out of his eyes. He’s wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and dark red corduroy trousers. He’s got some beat-up bright red boots on as well.

Baz picks up the radio before they can grab it. In a lower but still loud voice Baz says, “NO! It’s already on 218! Please don’t break it again!”

The redhead still grabs it and turns the volume as high as it can go. _Fortunate Son_ fills the shop.

“Niall!” Baz yells clearly annoyed over the music. The black-haired bloke starts yelling the lyrics.

_It ain't me, it ain't me_

_I ain't no millionaire's son, no, no_

_It ain't me, it ain't me_

_I ain't no fortunate one_

“Dev!” Baz yells again.

Niall starts laughing and turns the volume down but only a bit. It’s still loud as hell.

“Come on Baz, it’s CCR, they hardly ever play CCR.” Niall says pushing Baz’s shoulder a bit. He has an Irish accent that stands out against the posh British accents of the other two.

Baz rolls his eyes and looks away from me, turning his entire body towards the two who I assume are his friends.

“I thought you were a punk. Aren’t you supposed to listen to things like the Sex Pistols and the Clash?” Baz asks, crossing his arms and sneering.

“Yeah, but no,” Niall says spinning his legs around, so they are on the inside of the little box created by the large counters. “There’s way more to it than just music. It’s morals and a way of life. I can listen to whatever the hell I want,” He stops for a moment before tapping Baz on the side with the tip of his boot. “Unless it’s disco.”

“Abba is not disco! Abba is Abba! There’s a big difference.” Baz says annoyed before turning back to me. I think that’s an argument that’s been going on a while.

I give him a smile, and then I hear Dev speak up, “Oi, hippie boy, what’s your name?” He asks, walking towards me.

“Simon,” I say before putting the book in my bag, “Uh, Simon Snow,” I put my hand out for him to shake, which he does. “Oh, and by the way, I’m not a hippie.” I say with a small laugh.

“Is there something wrong with being a hippie Simon Snow?” Dev asks, crossing his arms and standing back a little.

He and beautiful clerk Baz have to be related, they both cross their arms and look posh. The only difference between them is Baz’s skin is tan and his features are sharper.

“N-No there’s nothing wrong with it. I’m just not one,” I say quickly, I’m a little worried I said something extremely wrong. The song has ended; now there are just loud commercials.

“You dress like one,” Dev says chuckling, taking one of the flowers from my hair and placing it on the counter.

“Yeah, I’m not one though,” I say with a shrug

“And why is that?” Niall asks; he’s asking in more of a curious tone than an offended one. Baz turns the radio down then looks at me inquisitively.

“Well, it’s like you said with the punk thing. It’s more than just clothes and music, it’s morals and a way of life. I just don’t follow it.” I say shrugging again

“Then what are you?” asks Baz, raising one of his eyebrows. I shrug and grab the strap of my bag again.

“I’m Simon.” I say, shooting him a small smile. He smirks back.

“Well, Simon Snow, the Simon, do you live here? Never seen you ‘round before,” Niall asks sliding off the counter his boots making a large thud when they hit the floor.

“Kind of, my friend _just_ moved here, and I live with her,” I say looking down at the ground and fiddling with my bag’s strap again.

“Right, well, if you ever want to hang with people,” Niall turns to Baz and raises his voice, “with music taste!” Baz throws two fingers at him with a sneer. “Dev and I are usually at the pub across the way,” He says pointing.

Dev grabs Niall’s shoulders and pulls him out the door, “Later, Baz!” he shouts before leaving.

I turn back to Baz. I think he was staring because when I turn to him a flush goes across his face before he goes back to being unreadable.

I look back at the counter to pick up my flower from where Dev put it, but it’s not there.

Baz

“Um,” he looks quizzically at the countertop and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to ask about the flower. Instead, he shakes his head, making his curls bounce a bit. “So uh, if Niall is a punk, what are you and Dev?”

I’m a little taken aback by the fact he didn’t say anything about the flower, but I just take it as a blessing from the universe and respond, “Well, Dev is a rocker and I’m,” I gesture to my clothes and the library, “the nerd.”

He smiles a little. “You aren’t a nerd,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh really?” I lean over the counter a little, so I’m face to face with him, “Then what am I, Snow?” I ask staring into his blue eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asks with an unfaltering smile.

“Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” I say, not breaking eye contact.

“Then you’re Baz,” he says cheerfully, and I swear for a moment I see him look at my lips. “Not everyone has to have a defined label, you can just…be.”

Oh, he’s totally a hippie. Or maybe he’s just being poetic?

I look down at his shirt. There is a pair of round sunglasses hanging from the collar, John Lennon style.

Nope. Hippie. The only difference is he smells of motel soap and burnt wood and not grass and patchouli.

“Right,” I say, squinting my eyes, as if I can figure him out just by that, “Well, Snow, you should get going, I have to close up shop.”

He looks a little sad for a second, “Oh, okay,” he says the smile he had been sporting falling a bit. There’s a stretch of silence between us. I can hear the radio playing _Riders on the Storm_ and I see Simon tapping his fingers to the beat.

_Take him by the hand_

_Make him understand_

_The world on you depends_

_Our life will never end_

Snow sighs breaking the silence, “Well, uh, do you know where _Mummers Flats_ are?”

I take out some notepaper, has the name and address of the library on the corner of it, and write out the directions.

I hand him the paper and our fingers brush; it feels like a jolt of fire fled through my body and made my cheeks turn red.

He flashes a smile at me, and then he’s gone as if he was never there.

The flower that was in his hair is still in the pocket of my jeans. I pull it out to examine it. It’s a simple wildflower with a long stem, but it has a slight pink blush to it. It’s an adorable little thing, a gem you could find on the side of the road if you looked hard enough.

The song changes to "Golden Years" and something about the sound makes me want to do something. Anything.

I take the flower and weave it into my hair, hooking it around my ear to keep it in place.

I turn the radio around to the metallic side which is shiny enough to use as a mirror and look at the small daisy nestled about an inch above my eye.

It’s nice.

The door opens and I quickly fling my loose hair in front of the flower, I look up to see Niall peeking his head in, “Baz you coming to the pub tonight?”

“Um, sure be out in a sec,” I respond.

The song has a bit of static because I moved the radio.

_Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere_

_Angel_

_Come get up, my baby_

_“_ Baz! Come on!” Dev yells from outside _._

I turn off the radio and run outside to meet up with my friends, the hidden daisy tickling my face as I walk.

I have a strange feeling that I’m going to get along with this Simon Snow.

_Look at that sky, life's begun_

_Nights are warm and the days are young_

_Come get up, my baby_

*******

Simon

I got to the new block of flats bit early and had to wait for Penny to show up so she could let me in.

The building isn’t too horrible, although the carpet in the hall is weirdly wet in some places and the neighbors have been fighting for the entire time, I’ve been stood out here.

It’s something about one of them smoking the other’s stash without permission.

Penny comes striding down the hall, her new purple hair in a frazzled bun on top of her head. She’s holding two small take away boxes and a bag of groceries.

“Pen! You want me to—” I start, but she doesn’t even let me finish before she’s unlocked the door and walked inside.

She’s quickly putting the small number of things she bought in the kitchen, so I decide to explore.

The new flat is bigger than the last one.

Though that’s not saying much considering the last one was just one big room and a ridiculously small bathroom. This one has two short hallways leading to two bedrooms and a nice kitchen and it’s not infested with insects or rodents.

The bathroom is bigger than the one in the last place, there’s a shower in it this time, and the living room area is livable.

After looking around, I walk back into the main room and sit down on the floor, which is a cool green color, and then I notice our record player sat against the wall with a crate of our records.

Penny’s putting chopsticks in our takeaway boxes while I sit on the floor, flipping through LPs.

I decide to put on _Rumors_ , she’s been _obsessed_ with Stevie Nicks since this album came out. We even saw Fleetwood Mac play in April, that was pretty sweet.

She’s gotten a new look recently; she finally has enough money to buy some new clothes, so along with her skirts and blouses she has new round glasses, new skirts and a new floral robe she wears over her pajamas.

She looks awesome.

Penny brings over the food and we sit and listen to some music before she brings up the subject of work.

“So, are you back in town for a while or am I on my own again?” she asks before taking a bite of her chicken.

I hate talking about work. I just pick-up odd jobs from anywhere that will take me. So, I’m always traveling but I still share rent with Penny and keep most of my stuff at the flat.

“Ah, yeah I’m staying a while,” I say mindlessly mixing my food.

I don’t really know why but I hate having to stay in one place, I love Penny like a sister but that’s the problem…she’s like my sister. Sometimes I like to be on my own not next to my sibling.

I don’t know, maybe if I found someone I’d stick around. At the very least if I found someone I could, _have_ someone.

_I know I got nothin' on you_

_I know there's nothin' to do_

_When times go bad_

_And you can't get enough_

_Won't you lay me down in the tall grass_

_And let me do my stuff_

My mind wanders a bit and I start thinking about that Baz bloke and his friends. They looked like they have fun, like they’re actually 20 year olds. Penny and I aren’t like that.

It’s always been working to just get by and hoping we keep our jobs for more than two months.

The labor strikes keep getting worse, with businesses shutting down left and right, leaving people like Penny and I to go from job to job, getting our fifty quid, and leaving for the next one.

It’s especially hard for Penny, she’s a woman, her hair is purple, her skin is brown, and she tends to seem “defiant” to most bosses (which is pure bullshit). So, her job options get smaller and smaller each city we go to.

I usually just leave to find jobs. Small towns pay a lot to guys like me, they don’t have too many people there to draw workers from, so if someone leaves it’s detrimental to the economy of the town.

I usually stick around for a couple of months, sending Penny my half of the rent in the mail. It’s honestly magical that someone hasn’t stolen one of the envelopes yet.

Baz probably doesn’t worry about jobs. His last name is on the front of the library he probably owns it, or his parents do.

I wonder what he’s doing right now? I know he took my daisy that was on the counter…why?

“Simon!” Penny loudly says, snapping me out of my thoughts. From the sound of her voice, I think she had to say my name a few times.

“Hm?” I hum raising my head from my food, I think I seriously zoned out cause the song is "Dreams" now.

“Where is your head, Simon?” Penny asks in a motherly tone. As if she’s accepted the fact that I’m all over the place but is still a bit disappointed.

I look in front of me to the hallway leading to Penny’s room; it’s dark and empty.

Honestly, empty flat walls and floors are a familiar sight.

There are holes from former tenants hanging up pictures, paint chipped and ripped off from years of them rearranging things and indentions in the carpet from furniture that was never moved.

Penny and I are lucky if we stay long enough to even think about putting a photo up on the wall. I don’t think I’ve ever hammered a nail into a flat’s wall before.

“Where the rain doesn’t fall,” I respond to Penelope with a smile.

We started that when we first met, it was our way of asking if I was okay. I would barely talk to anyone on a good day, so on bad days I ended up having to drink tea to help the calm pain in my throat from saying “hello.”

So, Penny made up “Where is your head Simon?” and if I answer, “Where the rain doesn’t fall,” she knows I’m fine, my head’s just in the clouds. If I answer, “No idea,” I’m not having a great day, and if I don’t answer she knows I’m not okay.

She just smiles and shakes her head looking at the album spinning on the turntable.

“This take-out is pretty bad isn’t it?” She asks with a laugh.

“Yeah, it’s not good,” I say laughing and shoveling another bite into my mouth.

She laughs at my complete disregard for the odd taste of my food.

“Simon, stop eating it!” she says slapping my shoulder.

“Why?” I say through a mouthful of food, “At least it’s not as bad as the kind we had in Sussex.”

Penny groans and cringes, “Ugh, don’t even mention that. I’m surprised you managed to drive while that sick,” She says standing up and going to the kitchen.

“I don’t think I did, I just kind of pressed on the gas and brakes and hoped I didn’t crash,” I say with a laugh, following Penny. The kitchen isn’t very big, barely big enough for two people (or it seems that way from where I’m standing I’m more on the outside of the kitchen.)

She opens the cabinets that has the rubbish bin and throws her dinner in it before opening our extremely empty refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of cider bottle and a bottle of water.

I look up through the window overlooking the new view we have, just cement and brick. The sky is dark oranges and blues as the sun is fully setting over the buildings.

Penny stands next to me and lays her head on my shoulder and hands me the cider, looking out on the new city we’ll see for the next few months.

“Do you think we’ll be able to stay?” Penny asks quietly.

“Hopefully,” I say opening my drink, “To new beginnings…again.”

She looks up at me and taps the bottles together, “To new beginnings again. Hopefully, these can be the final new beginnings.”

We drink our respective drinks, listening to Fleetwood Mac as the sun sets making the flat darker and darker.

I really do hope these are the last new beginnings too.

_When the rain washes you clean, you'll know  
  
_ _You'll know_

_You will know  
  
Oh, you'll know_

_*******_

Baz

This pub is trying too hard.

The whole place is trying to appeal to each and every person that could walk in.

Surprisingly a mix of punk, rock and roll, disco, R and B, and psychedelia is a little much.

The music is continuously hopping around going from the Beatles, to Abba, to The Clash, to Pink Floyd in the span of an hour.

The décor is a weird mix of decades, almost like they forgot to change it from 1945 but mixed it with a dark dingy pub from the 60s and modern-day patterns and said it’s for young adults.

Speaking of young adults, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual adult above the age of 25 in here except for the bartenders.

Dev, Niall, and I are sat in a booth in the front corner of the bar. The sun has finally set, making the streets dark and the alleyways darker. The only lights outside are from store windows and lampposts breaking the light into separate pools as if you could jump from circle of light to circle of light.

Dev has his heavy red boots on the table, leaning back into the booth more and more as the night progresses. Unlike Dev, Niall has been moving around the booth as the night progresses; right now he’s sat on the top of the bench, back pressed against the wall, the studs on the back of his boots digging into the flimsy pleather of the seat.

We’ve been mindlessly bantering and listening to music. At some point, Niall and Dev started talking about music meaning they won’t shut up about it for the rest of the night.

I think they’re talking about the Beatles; Dev says they’re influential but mainstream, Niall is saying they are perpetuating the establishment’s control of rebellious music…I’ve started to tune them out.

All I can think about is the flower hidden in my hair. The one that is tickling my face every time a move, the one that was just different enough to stand out. The flower that sat in Simon Snow’s curls, the one he picked out from amongst all of the other flowers.

Of all the wildflowers he chose this one. I wonder why?

I feel a hand hit the back of my head, physically disrupting my train of thought. I turn to see Niall’s hand withdrawing.

“What the bloody hell, Niall!” I shout.

“You weren’t listening,” he says with a chuckle tapping my arm with his boot. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m willing to bet a pound it’s hippie boy,” Dev says quietly taking his boots off the table and leaning forward. He knows he can’t say those accusations too loudly, especially if someone sees they’re directed at a bloke.

Now, just because he’s right doesn’t mean he has to know.

With a roll of my eyes and a sneer of my lips I say a stern, “No.”

They drop “hippie boy” as an option after that.

I throw back the rest of my drink and stand. “Well, I’m going home, I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

Dev says goodbye and……well _Dev_ dropped Simon as an option for my thoughts.

“Does the leaving mean you were thinking about hippie boy?” Niall asks with wide eyes. I sneer at him and stay silent.

“Sneers and snarls don’t erase the truth Basil!” he shouts as I walk out the door.

I flip him two fingers then walk back to my and Fiona’s flat.

*******

  
Fiona must be home tonight. I’m not sure where she is but her boots and jacket are on the floor.

I quietly shut the door and walk down the hall to my room.

I’ve always hated how small my room is, there's a built-in desk by the window, and high shelves above it continue along the wall on two sides of the room. My bed is pushed into the corner under the shelves. It all feels rather cramped.

I’ve begged Fiona, Niall, even Dev to help me get rid of the shelves, or at least move them but they always have excuses. Niall and Dev’s tend to be fancy ways of saying, “I don’t want to.” While Fiona usually says something about not owning this place so if something becomes incredibly broken, I’m paying for it.

So, the shelves stay. For now.

I’ve been on a mission to cover the horrid pale pink walls with anything and everything I can.

The shelves are stocked and filled with my favorite books (a lot are Jane Austen, Niall and Dev poked fun at me enough in our teen years, so the covers are off of them, barely anyone knows they are there.) I also have journals of writing over the years all packed in covering as much wall as possible. None of them are acceptable to show to other people, it has taken all my mental power to not burn every one of them.

The walls that don’t have shelves on them are covered in posters, one from the Abba concert I went to in February, a Pink Floyd poster, a couple Queen posters, an Elton John poster, and a few small festival posters I’ve acquired over the years.

I fall back on my bed putting my hands behind my head and staring at the ceiling. It’s pretty barren at the moment, with only some more posters and some blacklight stars Fiona and I made a couple of years ago.

She told me how my mother “hung the moon.”

A couple of days later we hung up small strings of cardboard stars and moons around the teen section of the library that glow under blacklight, and I kept a couple of strings for myself.

I miss her a great deal some nights, I never really _knew_ her, but I remember her. Though for a year after my father kicked out I wondered if she would have done the same.

Felt a bit lost since then I suppose.

I keep staring at the ceiling trying to think of anything to keep _Simon Snow_ away from my thoughts, to no avail.

All that I can think of is bronze curls, golden skin, blue eyes, the galaxy of freckles and moles across his face. The smile that was so infectious it made it nearly impossible for me to resist it.

Those sunglasses, that shirt, the jeans, the flowers—

The _flower._

The flower that’s still in my hair.

I sit up and quickly reach up and pull the flower out from behind my ear.

There are significantly fewer light pink petals then when I put it in my hair. I shake out my hair a bit with my hands and the lost petals fall to my lap. Great.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet, there’s an empty space where my ID should be but instead, it’s a white piece of cardboard and a see-through slip of plastic.

Because I’m disturbed (and a bit obsessed with the poetic feel of this), I place the flower between the see-through plastic and the cardboard and press down as hard as I can until it is fully pressed down inside the wallet.

It really is a bit overboard for a man I just met, who is probably isn’t even gay.

They’re never gay, are they?

It’s hard to tell, and I always end up in some form of trouble if I say something, or if I ask.

I look back down at the flower in my wallet.

I can almost hear the comments,

_“Gross”_

_“Pervert”_

_“Stalker”_

The never-ending slurs that people manage to come up with…you could just say “no, thank you.”

I try to push those thoughts away, the doubts, the feelings of pure hatred.

I really _try_.

Nothing seems to be working, so I decide to indulge myself. If I can’t stop thinking about Simon Snow, or I can’t stop thinking of insults and slurs I’ve heard over the years. I’m choosing the lesser of the two evils.

Thoughts of hippie boy Simon Snow.

The thought that maybe he is gay or bisexual, and maybe he’d be interested in me. Maybe he is the guiding light I need, or maybe he’s some form of future beyond libraries and lectures. The fact that he’s going to come back, at least once, so he can drop off the book.

Books…I wonder if he’ll check out more?

As that thought passes my mind, I grab a partly written in journal on my desk and start to write all the books I think Simon would enjoy.

_Books Simon Snow would enjoy? -_

_Jaws (Adventurous?)_

_The Princess Bride (Fantasy)_

_The Outsiders (Niall’s favorite, maybe he’ll like it too?)_

_Jane Eyre (maybe)_

_~~The Great Gatsby~~ _

_~~Catcher in The Rye~~ _

_Lord of the Flies (Survival? I don’t know, it’s a good read anyway)_

_~~Pride and Prejudice~~ _ _(probably not Basil)_

I turn around and flip on the radio above my bed as it starts to play, “Signed Sealed, Delivered” as I keep adding to the list.

_Ooh baby, here I am  
  
Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours, I'm yours_

Simon

After Penny and I hang out a bit longer she goes to her room to try and find a way to sleep and I head back to my van. 

The way back is dark. We aren’t in the main part of the city more on the outskirts of it. There’s not really bustling nightlife or well-lit streets.

Once I get back to my van I drive for a while before I find a nice spot far away from the city. I can still see the city and I know my way back but I’m far enough that the city lights don’t block out the stars.

I park and climb into the back of my van.

The back of my van is my ever-changing project.

I’ve glued carpet down back here so it’s somewhat comfortable. I got a small mattress pushed to one side with a pillow and sheets. I’ve got posters taped up and I’ve painted some stars in random places with glow-in-the-dark paint.

I stand up a bit and push open the sunroof so the light breeze will flow in and the moonlight will make it bright enough that I can read.

I turn off the car and take out a portable radio and start flipping through some channels.

Penny says my system is redundant but honestly, I’d rather listen to music and have a working car battery.

Once I’m able to pick up a station, the song “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” is playing.

I start reading and I’m almost immediately hooked, I spend the next 11 hours getting through the entirety of the book, only noticing the sunrise because it makes the pages easier to see. The whole time I’m thinking about how I don’t want it to end.

_Ooh, baby, you set my soul on fire  
  
That's why I know you're my heart's only desire_

  
…but if it does, I could see that Baz bloke again.

  
_Ooh baby, here I am_  
  
_Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Signed, Sealed, Delivered, he's yours! haha (ok), if you enjoyed this chapter leave a kudos and/or comment! (or if you have any constructive criticism). Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> If you want to say hi you can find me at [bloodiedpixie](https://bloodiedpixie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	2. Hippie Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! If you want to listen along with the story there is a [Of All The Wildflowers Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5edgzIeLCmzylazIzE36ny?si=ztSpnm1IRLCgXm1AQtvJ6w)!!
> 
> Big thank you [Ampithoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampithoe/pseuds/Ampithoe) and [Aristocratic_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocratic_Otter/pseuds/Aristocratic_Otter) for beta reading!!
> 
> Thank you for all the love on this story!! Enjoy the second chapter!!

Baz

I wake to the sound of the Rolling Stones booming through the flat.

I groan as I lift my head and peel my notebook off of my cheek. I crashed around 4 a.m. after writing out a long list of books Simon might enjoy. I ended up crossing out most of the suggestions and then just doodling flowers before inevitably passing out.

I look at the clock above my bed and see that it’s 7 am and I curse the day my aunt took me in.

Fiona usually wakes up around 8 and wakes me at 9, but this morning she has decided to play loud music and sing (wildly off-key) at 7.

Now, I love Fiona; she’s the only family I’ve got left. However, on mornings like this, I’m incredibly tempted to burn the damn flat down just to make her stop.

Asking her to stop would do me no good. _“Jesus Christ, it’s just music Basil, lighten up!”_ she would say.

I slide the journal on to my desk and hold my pillow over my ears, pressing my face into the mattress in an attempt to muffle the sound. Surprisingly, it only seems to get louder.

_When you were a child you were treated kind_

_But you were never brought up right_

_You were always spoiled with a thousand toys but still you cried all night_

_Your mother who neglected you owes a million dollars tax_

_And your father's still perfecting ways of making sealing wax_

I dramatically throw my pillow off of me and sit up.

“FIONA! PLEASE TURN THAT DOWN!” I shout, hopefully, loud enough that she hears me.

She hears me. The music becomes immediately louder.

_You better stop, look around_

_Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes, here it comes_

_Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown_

“FIONA!” I shout again. I know she can’t hear me now.

I get out of bed. I’ll turn it down myself if I have to.

As soon as I open my door the music is deafening. I stomp down the hallway and through the dining room into the kitchen, my hands pressed up against my ears.

When I enter the kitchen, I see Fiona cooking pancakes, a cigarette sticking out of her mouth. She’s wearing the black robe I got her for Christmas, and she has her hair pulled up in a messy bun.

“FI!” I shout. She glances at me but doesn’t answer, just continues cooking.

I turn the radio off in one swift motion and glare at her.

“What the fuck, Basil?” she asks irritably, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray by the stove.

“I asked you to turn it off,” I say with a sneer.

“What? Are you hungover or something?” She asks, flipping the pancake over.

“No, I just don’t particularly want to lose my hearing at 7 in the morning,” I say, sitting down in one of the chairs around our small table.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says sarcastically., “How’s 5 pm for you? Can you lose your hearing then?” she asks, turning to me with a raised eyebrow.

I just sneer and roll my eyes, running my hand through my hair.

She turns the radio back on, more quietly now, and looks for another station. Eventually, when she finds one she likes the sounds of sizzling food are joined by Elton John’s voice.

She turns it up a bit more and starts to sing along to the lyrics.

_I'm a bitch, I'm a bitch, oh, the bitch is back_

_Stone-cold sober, as a matter of fact_

She puts the now-finished pancake on a plate with the others she has made. When she makes them, they’re never golden brown. They’re always slightly burnt around the edges and a bit bitter.

_I can bitch, I can bitch 'cause I'm better than you_

_It's the way that I move, the things that I do, oh-oh-oh_

She points at me on “I’m better than you,” and I curl my lip at her. When she turns back to the food and away from me, I let a small smile spread across my face.

I do really appreciate everything Fiona has done for me. I doubt I was a very good roommate when I first moved in. An overly emotional 16-year-old could not have been the best company to have around.

After Father kicked me out and Fiona took me in, she did everything in her power to convince me that everything would be fine. That I didn’t need “those assholes” and I could live my life freely around her. Those few months after I first moved in, Fiona was the most sentimental and considerate, I have ever seen her.

Now, it’s just vulgarity, smoking, and listening to the loudest music possible at ungodly hours of the morning.

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

She slides a fork and a plate of slightly burnt pancakes, charred bacon in front of me as she keeps mouthing the repetitive lyrics.

She sits in the chair across from me, slathering her food in syrup.

“You know, if you actually tried to not burn these you wouldn’t have to cover them in viscous sugar,” I scold with a scowl.

She cuts off a piece of her pancake with the side of her fork and shoves it in her mouth.

“Says the boy who uses half a bag of sugar and a whole carton of cream just for one fucking coffee,” she responds through a mouth full of food.

“Chew your food,” I spit back.

“Eat your food,” she responds immediately.

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

I take a bite out of the charred ashes of what was once bacon, “It tastes like shit.”

“Language Basil, do I have to wash your mouth out with soap?” she asks sarcastically, taking a sip of her black coffee.

“Soap would taste better,” I say, sneering then taking another bite of ash.

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

“Eat the rest of your food before it gets cold, you, little shit,” she says, ruffling my hair.

I move my hand up to fix it and it feels sticky.

“You got syrup in my hair!” I exclaim, offended

She laughs, “Oh don’t get pissy, boyo. You need a shower anyway.”

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

_Bitch, bitch, bitch is back_

I roll my eyes and take a bite of the pancakes in front of me.

“This tastes like shit too,” I say, but this time I can’t keep the smile off my face.

“Good,” she says with a small laugh before digging into the rest of her food.

The song has ended, and the channel has moved on to the news.

I take another bite of pancakes and let the sweet yet slightly burnt and bitter taste crowd my senses.

I lied. They don’t taste _that_ bad.

They taste like home.

Penny

I’m trying to find something to make tea, but, like most mornings, we don’t really have anything. We have tea, I made sure of that. Mugs? Still in the car. Kettle? Not currently. Anything resembling hot water? Not a drop.

I didn’t tell Simon I sold some things. Nothing important, nothing of his. Just a few kitchen appliances, some furniture, and a few of my albums.

We couldn’t afford this place _and_ pay off our deposit on our last apartment on the salaries Simon and I make. So, I sold things to make up for the shortfall.

I don’t mind—they weren’t my favorite albums, we barely used the furniture, and I can survive without tea and baking bowls for a while.

So, I stop looking and get a glass of water instead.

I wonder where Simon went.

Well, I know where he went after he left the flat; I’m not stupid. He has a mattress, spare clothes, and music, pretty much everything in the back of that van — of course, he’d leave to sleep there. But _where_ did he go?

Sometimes I wake up and I’m scared Simon will be gone again. He’s done it before, gets antsy staying one place after a few months, up and leaves, and I get a letter in the mail or a phone call a week later telling me where he is and that he’s fine.

All he wanted when we graduated was to travel about — to just “go and be,” whatever the hell that means, but the moment we made it out into the world it became so much harder. Money was slow, rent was high and kept getting higher, holidays became workdays, a comfortable bed became a luxury. It felt like we had to pay to breathe.

Somehow, Simon and I overcame the worst of it, but he left almost immediately after.

I didn’t see him or hear from him for about a month. I thought he had died; I was about ready to call the police when the phone finally rang.

I was met with Simon’s voice, happier than I had heard it in a long time. When he came back, he was productive and calm, a stark difference to the angry ball of energy that had left a month prior.

I know travel does him good, but he needs to stay in one place. For my sake. I’m worried that one day that van is going to run out of gas, or Simon will run out of steam. The boy is too similar to Icarus. I’m just waiting for the day when he flies too close to the sun when his wings melt away.

I hate living in pure dread that one day he’ll go too far into his own head and if I’m not there to ask where his head is, he won’t remember me, he won’t come back. I’m not going to be able to help him.

I don’t know if I could help him.

“PENNY!” I hear Simon shout as he slams open the door and stumbles into the flat.

Speak of the devil.

“AH! What is it, Simon?!” I shout, flinching so violently that some water spills out of the glass and onto the floor.

“Sorry!” he says quickly. He’s out of breath. When I look at him, he looks like shit: his hair is all over the place with various flowers in it, he’s wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday and there are light purple bags under his eyes.

“What happened to you? Are you on the run?” I ask as I grab the kitchen roll and lean down to dry up the spilled water.

“No,” He laughs, still out of breath, “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

He squats down in front of me and holds a book out to me, “You ever read this?” He asks.

I look at the cover and it says _The Once and Future King_. I didn’t know Simon had read that. Or maybe, he hasn’t and he’s just asking because he found it somewhere.

“Of course,” I say adjusting my glasses.

“Oh, awesome! I got it yesterday after I came into town and I just finished it. I really want to talk to someone about it,” he says happily, as he sits down, holding the book in his lap like a child.

“Yesterday? Christ, Simon, you’re a fast reader,” I say as I put the kitchen roll back on the counter and sit in front of Simon.

“Really? It’s not that long. Only,” he stops to flip to the last page of the novel, “773 pages. I’ve seen you read longer.”

I gawk at him, “Yes, Simon, but not in one night!”

He blushes a little as if I was embarrassing him, “Yeah, I guess I read fast,” he says quietly.

“That’s not a bad thing!” I quickly say, “Not at all! But go on, tell me what you like.”

His eyes light up as he rambles about the themes of heroes and villains, his love for the Wart, and his strong dislike of Mordred. I haven’t seen that look of pure delight in his eyes since first year. It’s nice.

“Oh! And the library is only a few minutes away and there’s this really cool guy there who picked this out, so I’ll ask him if he’ll recommend me some more books,” he rambles.

A cool guy at a library, huh?

I think maybe he found a reason to stay.

Baz

I hate this part of my job. I pick up the new book and write down a new number in the biggest, most disorganized notebook in all of history.

We have the dumbest system of tracking in all of London. A notebook for when/what books are checked out, a smaller notebook of names and numbers, and finally the biggest notebook/binder, which lists our entire stock and everything we have.

As I’m finishing up with the final box of new books, Fiona drops _another_ box of books labeled “new” behind the counters and I let out a loud groan.

“Cool it boyo, it’s your job,” she shouts as she walks down one of the aisles of books.

I silently mock her making a stupid face, like a child and get back to writing book numbers.

All is silent until the door opens, letting hot summer air into the cool library.

I look up and expect to see some of our normal crowd. Old people, students looking for some obscure novel from the 30s, children, and tired mothers. Instead, I see _the_ hippie boy himself.

He’s wearing the same outfit as yesterday, but he has new flowers in his hair. Three white ones, two yellow, and one pale pink one, all laced into his lovely bronze curls.

He looks a bit tired, with faint light purple bags under his eyes. His clothes are a bit rumpled, but he is still wearing a bright smile.

“Hi,” he says cheerily, “I, uh, I’m returning this,” he says with a chuckle, placing his book on the counter.

“Did you not like it?” I ask, picking up the novel.

It’s a long book; it took me quite a while to finish it. There’s no way someone who “doesn’t read all the time,” finished it in a night.

“No! I loved it!” he exclaims., “I just finished it and I want to read something else,” he says with a laugh.

“Fast reader,” I murmur with a smile. I take the book and put it on the unopened box of books waiting to be labeled and leave it for later.

“So, do you want something similar or something else entirely?” I ask, folding my arms on the counter.

“It doesn’t matter, just anything you think I’ll like,” he says, shrugging.

Oh, sweet merciful lord. That self-indulgent list might come in handy.

“Let me see if I can find anything,” I say with a smile before walking down one aisle to the fantasy section again.

I pick out three books, The Hobbit, The Book of Merlyn (because it’s a continuation, he has to read it), and The Princess Bride.

Something old, something new, and something that should make him smile.

Though this feels like too little.

As I’m gathering the books I’m tempted to slip in some of my favorites. _Jane Eyre_ ? _Pride and Prejudice_?

I turn my head so I can see him. He has taken one of the flowers out of his hair and is spinning it between his fingers. It’s the pale pink one, and he’s moving it with great care like it might turn to dust if he moves it too much.

Shakespeare.

_I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,_

_Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,_

I walk down a different aisle and start to look over all our Shakespeare plays, looking for a particular copy of a play that I think he might enjoy.

_Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,_

_With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:_

I turn my head to stare at him for one moment more, now, while I’m hidden by the shadows of the bookshelves.

The light in the library is a clash of pure white morning light and the golden glow from the old chandelier. Simon, somehow, still looks as glowing as he did yesterday. Maybe he just always looks like that.

_There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,_

His mouth is open a bit as he stares at the wildflower in his fingers, before delicately weaving it back between his curls. I look back to the shelves and see the copy pushed to the far end on the top shelf. The bright red, beautifully illustrated copy of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ that we had shipped in recently.

I think he’ll enjoy it.

_Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;_

Simon

Baz comes back with four books in his arms. The stack is a colorful display, greens, blacks, yellows, blues, gold and silver, writing, flowery and bold fonts.

“What’s that one?” I ask pointing to the bright red one.

“Shakespeare,” He says, flipping open one of the other books and writing in a notebook at the same time.

I never really enjoyed Shakespeare. Well, I don’t hate Shakespeare, but I’ve only read one play and it was the biggest pain in the arse. All for what? To get a 0 on an assignment because I thought it was overdone and not true love.

….I know that isn’t Shakespeare’s fault. I’ll read it if Baz thinks it’s good.

I think I must have made a face or something because Baz raises one of his eyebrows and asks, “Is something wrong with Shakespeare?”

“No!” I say quickly, “I read Romeo and Juliet in school and it wasn’t my favorite.”

He nods slowly and moves on to writing more numbers in the notebook.

“Well, that’s a comedy, not a tragedy, so I think you’ll do fine.”

I smile and look into his eyes. When he did this yesterday it was so fast, I didn’t get to really see how focused he looks. He’s got the book opened in one hand and he’s writing numbers down in the notebook with the other.

He’s doing this adorable thing where his bottom lip is pulled into his mouth just enough that you can see his teeth.

I decide to stop staring at his lips and just look in his general direction, trying to seem a little less creepy.

He’s wearing a maroon floral pattern shirt tucked into tight-fitting black pants and for his belt, he's got this strip of red velvet tied in a loose bow. His outfit isn’t too flashy and doesn’t stand out at first glance but there are ’s subtle things that are special about it.

I quickly look at his face and see his eyes. They’re sharp, piercing, but when he looks at books, they’re soft. I can’t quite place the color. Well, I know the color, they’re grey, but it’s a different grey, like the deep ocean. The kind of grey that’s intimidating but so interesting.

Baz shuts the book he’s holding with a loud _whump_ and places it on top of the stack of other books he’s picked out.

“Well, Snow, I think you’ll quite enjoy these,” he says pushing the books across the counter to me.

“Thanks, mate, so which one should I start with?,” I ask, starting to place them in my bag.

He smirks, “The Book of Merlyn; it’s a continuation of The Once and Future King.” He always sounds so knowledgeable when talking about books. Even when he’s just giving simple facts he sounds like a professor.

I smile, slipping the final book into my bag. Right before I say goodbye my stomach growls loudly.

“Hungry, Snow?” he says with a chuckle.

I awkwardly chuckle back and nod. He’s finishing up writing in a notebook and closes it. I really want to talk to him more, like about something other than books.

I want to talk to him more. I want to see that face focused on a different topic…on me, I guess.

“So um, would you like to get breakfast somewhere?” I manage to mumble out.

Please say yes, please say yes.

He stays silent.

What is he thinking?

Baz

Oh dear lord, God has blessed me today.

….What the bloody hell do I say to that?

Is he gay? Would it be a date?

I want to go so badly, but what about work?

Fuck work. I want to go.

I need money to go.

I need to work to get money.

Maybe Fiona would let me go?

Can he tell that I’m freaking out?

Shit.

Simon

He looks confused or shocked. For a moment he looks like a person before he reverts back into being an unreadable sophisticated librarian.

“Um,” he starts shakily before clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck, “As much as I would enjoy that Snow, I have work —”

I feel my face fall before someone interrupts him.

“Just go with the hippie and have breakfast, boyo,” a woman says, walking out from one of the aisles with her arms full of books.

She’s wearing a black tee-shirt that says “Ramones” in big white block letters, black business trousers, Doc Martens, and a leather jacket wrapped around her waist. She looks like a female semi-punk version of Baz. I wonder if that’s his mum.

“Fiona,” Baz says sternly. Okay, definitely not his mum. Unless he has a real shite relationship with her. “You can’t do all this on your own.”

“I’m well aware. I have other employees, Basil,” she replies, tying her dark hair into a loose bun. She’s got one white streak. Badass.

“They won’t be here until—” Baz starts, but Fiona cuts him off by putting her hand up.

“It’ll be fine, just go to breakfast with the hippie,” she repeats.

I decide to not interrupt her with the fact that I’m not a hippie and just let her convince Baz to have breakfast with me.

“Technically it would be closer to lunch by now, Fi.” Baz says crossing his arms.

“Right, so stop your protesting and go have lunch, ya tit,” Fiona over-enunciates lunch and ruffles Baz’s hair when she calls him a tit.

“Fi!” Baz scolds, shoots her a sneer, and attempts to fix his hair. She laughs and tosses him something.

“Don’t forget your wallet.You left it on the table earlier,” she says. Then she picks up a clipboard and pen and starts walking around to the back of the library.

I look at Baz and he has a blush spread across his face. I wonder what that’s about; it’s only a wallet.

Baz looks at his wallet one last time before shoving it in his pocket and walking out from behind the counters.

“You know, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I say quietly, fiddling with a stray thread on my bag.

“I’m aware,” he says, straightening the sleeves on his shirt. While he does that, I see that he’s got a ring on his right hand. It’s gold and has an orange gem on it.

“Where are we headed?” Baz asks, pulling my attention away from his hands.

“Oh, I found a coffee place down the road yesterday, want to go there?”

“Anywhere you want to go, I’ll follow,” he says, sticking his thumbs into his pockets.

“Sweet!” I exclaim, walking towards the door with Baz following behind me.

He walks ahead of me and opens the door for me.

“Lead the way, hippie boy.”

“I’m not a hippie.”

“Sure.”

He closes the door and walks beside me to the café.

*******

When we arrive, the café is almost full. It’s a little place, there are about five or six tables and a display case of all the pastries available. The whole place smells delicious. Bread, biscuits, bagels, muffins, cakes, scones. Holy shit, they have scones!.

Come Together is playing over the speakers, and there are few people tapping their fingers in time with the music. I look at Baz and his foot is tapping along.

_He roller coaster_

_He got early warning_

I didn’t notice his shoes before; he’s got on these dark maroon leather boots that match his makeshift velvet belt.

He looks lovely. I didn’t really have a word for his outfit until now. Lovely, and confident. He looks like he could rule the world with one glare.

_He got muddy water_

_He one mojo filter_

Baz is looking at the menu and leans in close to tell me what he wants, then walks over to the table I spotted. It’s a brief moment that makes my face go red. Everything he does is fast; I almost don’t see him until he’s walking away.

_He say, "One and one and one is three."_

_Got to be good-lookin' 'cause he's so hard to see_

I order our coffees (and scones for me), before going to sit across from Baz at the small table.

_Come together, right now_

_Over me_

“So,” I say, sitting down.

He raises an eyebrow at me, “So?”

I stay silent. My brain has stopped working.

Baz smirks at me, “You didn’t think I’d come with you; did you, Snow?”

I chuckle., “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, ask whatever you like,” Baz says, loosely crossing his arms.

I don’t want to ask him anything too personal off the bat or anything.

“How old are you?”

“20.”

“How long have you worked at the library?”

“Since I was 16.”

Oh. That’s a long time. Well, I suppose if his family owns it, that’s not too young.

“Do you live around here?”

“Yes,” he answers flatly.

Before I can ask another question, he says, “Enough with the boring questions, hippie boy. Ask me something interesting.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the waitress brings over our drinks and my scones and puts them on the table.

“Cheers!” I say as she walks away.

I look back at Baz and he’s practically pouring sugar into his coffee along with a lot of cream.

“You got a sweet tooth?”

He looks at me with a raised brow.

“Something wrong with that?”

“No, just surprised.”

“Why?” he asks before blowing on his drink.

I smile., “Aren’t I supposed to be asking questions?”

“I think it can go both ways, Snow.” He takes a sip of his drink, “Plus you aren’t asking anything interesting or thought-provoking.”

“Fine, what about the punk and the rocker, how’d you meet them?” I ask, taking a sip of my tea.

He leans back in his seat, “Well, Dev is my cousin, so I’ve known him since birth, but Niall, I met in school. Early on in school, mind you, just a scraggly boy with a thick accent, kept his eyes down so much you couldn’t tell if they were blue or brown,” Baz says, gesturing towards his eyes.

“There’s no way he was a quiet kid,” I say through the scone in my mouth.

He nods slowly., “He was very quiet and was like that for a good while, but ‘75 rolled around and he started wearing leather jackets and fucking up his hair, and Dev started listening to more Rolling Stones and The Who,” he says with a disgusted look as if rock n roll is a horrible thing.

“The two of them have never been the same since,” Baz finishes, taking a sip of his overly sweet coffee.

I nod and say, “Right, so I saw that look you pulled, what’s wrong with The Stones and The Who?” I ask, leaning forward a little and resting my elbows on the table.

“There isn’t anything inherently wrong with them, I’m just not a fan.”

“Why not?”

“Too typical.”

“Too typical? What the bloody hell does that mean?”

He chuckles, “They’re too typical of a band to like, they’re mainstream —they don’t stand out like other rock bands.”

I squint., “That’s a load of shite.”

He smirks and tilts his head, “How so?”

“All bands are mainstream if they’re played on the radio. Just because a lot of people like them, which, by the way, not that many people do, doesn’t make them any less of a band. They still have their integrity…well, as much integrity as rock stars have,” I say, rubbing my neck.

He smiles, “I suppose that’s true. Well, either way, they aren’t my taste.”

“What is your taste?”

He stops for a moment, “Elton John, Queen, Abba, Pink Floyd—”

I cut him off, “Pink Floyd? I wouldn’t take you for a Pink Floyd fan.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you like such different stuff.”

“Oh no, I’m an individual with a varied taste in music,” he says flatly and sarcastically.

I laugh, “Not that varied.”

“Pardon?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

“You said Elton, Queen, Abba, and Pink Floyd, right?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

“Correct,” he responds, crossing his legs.

“Well, those are all mainstream artists—”

“They are not!” he exclaims, offended.

“Let me finish! They are all mainstream. They get played all the time on the radio, they play to sold out arenas, the whole package deal, but they stand out. They all are their own thing. No one would think anything beyond, rock and disco if you said those names but if they’ve ever listened to the artists at all they’ll know that’s not the case.”

I take a sip of my tea and look at him. He looks confused, his brow is furrowed, and a small bit of his bottom lip is pulled in.

“What?” I ask. Did I overstep? I probably shouldn’t have analyzed his music taste.

“You’re smarter than you look, hippie boy.”

“What?”

He scoffs with a smile, “Never mind. What’s your music taste like?”

“Um, I don’t know, whatever is on the radio really.”

“Fascinating,” he says sarcastically.

I stay silent and take a sip of my tea.

“Wait, really? You don’t have any favorite artists? No albums at home?” he asks, confused.

I shrug, “Never really thought about it, I just kind of buy albums when they’re on sale and whatever it is is what I got. I like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, The Who, CCR, The Grateful Dead., I like other bands too, but, um, I guess I like those the most.”

He stays silent for a moment before laughing, “Good lord, you _are_ a hippie!”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are, you sound like the setlist of Woodstock!” he laughs. He looks nice with a smile.

“Oh! I would have loved to go to Woodstock!” I exclaim, leaning back in my chair.

“It wasn’t that great,” he sneers.

“Wait, what?! Did you go to Woodstock?!”

“With Dev and my other cousin Marcus, yes. We stayed through the second day, then left,”

I have my mouth open wide, just staring at him in awe.

“Mouth breather,” he mumbles.

“You— How— What— Weren’t you twelve?!” I stutter out.

“Yes, my family was in a nearby town for some business trip and so Dev, Marcus, and I decided to pay off Vera to drive us there.”

“Who’s Vera?”

“Our nanny practically, but she’s more of a general maid.”

He paid off a nanny at 12?! How posh _is_ he?

“Was it fun?”

“It was something, the bands were phenomenal, but I never could wash the smell of grass and patchouli from the shirt I wore that day.”

We share a laugh, then Baz gets up to pay for breakfast. I offered to pay but he insisted (thank God, I only have two quid on me).

I stand by the door waiting for him so I can watch him walk to the counter in his tight black pants. His boots shine a dark red in the sun and he walks back to me.

I catch a bit of what’s playing on the radio as he walks towards me.

_And take it!_

_Take another little piece of my heart now, baby_

_(Oh, oh, break it!)_

“Ready to go?” He asks, slipping his thumbs into his pockets, and smirking.

His voice makes my face feel hot. Weird.

“Y—Yeah, totally.”

He raises his eyebrow then opens the door, exiting the café.

I follow quickly.

_Break another little bit of my heart_

_Now darling, yeah, c'mon now_

_(Oh, oh, have a!)_

As we walk down the road my brain is buzzing.

_Was this a date? Are we still on a date? Could I reach for his hand?_

Jesus Christ, Simon, you just met him yesterday.

_…Is he gay?_

“So um,” I start, and I already know what I’m asking is going to get me in deep shit if he isn’t gay or bi (it has before).

“Was this a date?” I mumble, only loud enough that he could hear, no one else on the street.

Baz stops, looks around then pulls me into the nearest alleyway by my forearm, and shoves me against the wall.

Shit.

Baz

When—

What—

How—

How would he know? Am I that obvious? Is he?

Is this a joke? I swear if this is a joke…it’s probably a joke.

What if he’s just trying to get me to say I’m gay so he can have an excuse to beat the hell out of me like with…

Fuck.

I grab his wrist and walk him down the nearest alleyway and hold him close to the wall. I look around to see if anyone is looking and before I can say anything, he starts rambling.

“I’m sorry! Really, I am! I shouldn’t have assumed! I’m really really sorry!! I just thought maybe…but that’s not the point I’m really sorry!” he says, sounding on the verge of tears. He gets much quieter, and cowers a bit, getting closer to the wall before he says, “Please don’t hurt me.”

Oh. Oh!

In a state of panic that I scared the shit out of him. (I’d be terrified too. I _am_ terrified.)

I speak quickly and I manage to get out, “NoNoNoNo! That’s not what— I’m not going to—” even with my half sentences, Simon seems calmer.

He must understand what I’m trying to say, in my messy attempt to salvage this.

I take a breath and look around once more.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Are you—” I stop, how the hell do I ask this? “Did you want this to be a date?” I say quietly. I’m very aware that no one is around us but I’m not risking it.

He nods slowly, letting out a held breath.

He’s still tense, eyes wide open and staring at me.

“So…are you?” He asks slowly, still slightly leaning away from me as if I’m going to suddenly change my sexuality and turn into a raging homophobe.

“Yes…are you?” I ask, lowering my voice so no one can hear.

It’s like I’m trying to hide from the non-existent people I feel listening to me. The hidden eyes. The hypervigilant ears. The ones I’ve spent avoiding since I was 11. Since I saw a picture of Mick Jagger and my eyes went wide.

 _Those_ non-existent people. _Those_ ears and eyes. The ones that are all too real some days.

A smile spreads slowly across his face, making his freckled cheeks rise.

“I don’t know what I am,” he says. Then he mumbles, “but I think you’re hot.”

I blush and smirk before pushing off the wall and walking out of the alleyway.

I hear him laugh but he doesn’t come after me. I turn around, putting my thumbs in my pockets.

“Come on hippie boy, walk me back to the library before my aunt hunts me down.”

He jogs up next to me with a large grin on his face.

He bumps his shoulder against mine and mumbles, “I’m not a hippie.”

As we walk, I hear Janis Joplin’s voice playing in my head.

_Have another little piece of my heart now, baby_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! so I completely forgot to add the songs mentioned in the last chapter so here they are:
> 
> Let it Be by The Beatles  
> Me and Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin  
> Fortunate Son by Creedence Clearwater Revival  
> Riders of the Storm by The Doors  
> Golden Years by David Bowie  
> Second Hand News by Fleetwood Mac  
> Dreams by Fleetwood Mac  
> Signed Sealed Delivered (I’m Yours) by Stevie Wonder
> 
> And the songs mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> 19th Nervous Breakdown by The Rolling Stones  
> The Bitch is Back by Elton John  
> Come Together by The Beatles  
> Piece of my Heart by Janis Joplin
> 
> And the lines Baz is thinking of in the library are from A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare
> 
> If you want to listen along with the story, you can listen to the [Of All The Wildflowers Playlist!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5edgzIeLCmzylazIzE36ny?si=ztSpnm1IRLCgXm1AQtvJ6w)
> 
> Anyhow! I hope you guys are enjoying this fic! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!!  
> If you guys want to say hi to me or anything you can find me at [bloodiedpixie](https://bloodiedpixie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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